


Wearily We'll Return Home Again

by shewhowritestoomuch



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-23 09:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhowritestoomuch/pseuds/shewhowritestoomuch
Summary: Tommy had gone to the war to find one of the people with whom he was meant to be. By the time he'd been driven back to the beach he'd given up any hope of finding either of them. To say that it was a shock when he found both of them in the space of only a few hours was an understatement.TL;DR: A Happy Soulmate AU where nobody dies and everything (eventually) turns out fine.





	1. The Beach

When Tommy had enlisted in the armed forces, he had known that he’s be posted to France, he had been counting upon it in fact. He was from the North, knew that his chances of getting to Europe before widespread death and destruction rained down on the continent were slim at best if he tried to go any other way. He knew that if he wanted to find the frog whose name matched the scrawl on his arm before war had made corpses of them all, he’d have to go to the front as soon as he could.

Even with the stories his father had told him, even with the night-terrors he’d grown up listening to, even with the lessons and lessons they’d been given at school about the horrors and the unnecessary cruel deaths experienced on all sides, he was not prepared for what he found in France. No schoolbook could have prepared him for the sound of a machine-gun firing right next to his ear, or the screeching of Stuka bombs coming from overhead.

He had thought that he could be heroic, come to the rescue of whoever his soulmate turned out to be, but in the end, he just ended up running like everyone else. Empty handed just as everyone else had too, the strangely spelled version of the common French name matching the handwriting of none of the soldiers or civilians he had fled west with. Maybe it was all for the best, him being one of the few survivors to make it to Dunkirk. He wasn’t sure that he would have been able to take it if he had found his soulmate only to lose them to a bullet to the neck.

Even when he had reached the beach, his hopes of at least seeming heroic were smashed into tiny pieces, the stagnant queues a far cry from the rushed action which had characterized their entrance into the now occupied country. If he was honest, it was almost a relief to hear the screaming of the plane above him. He couldn’t have described how exactly is was a relief, maybe the break from the quiet, all of the joy and vivacity of his comrades in arms sucked out by the absolute defeat they had suffered. If nothing else it broke the suffocating silence. 

And wasn’t that horrible? To be grateful for something that’d probably kill him given enough time. He wondered if there was a shrink trapped on the beach with them, if there were, they would have surely discharged him then and there for his strange and shattered psyche.

 _War_ , Tommy thought, _is hell_. But not in the way everybody thought. It wasn't the fighting, the brief bursts of panicked action, the chaotic mess of scared boys trying to survive. 

It was the quiet. The inability to know anything concretely. The feeling of damp sand scratching against his neck, as it was while he waited for the plane overhead to finish dropping its bombs on the beach.

He lifted his head from the damp sand of the accursed beach. He had been right in the line of fire of the enemy plane, only luck had saved him from being blasted into unrecognisable chunks of viscera. The boy got up and dusted himself off, looking around as most of the soldiers did the same.

 _I can’t stay here_.

The boy, for that was what he really was, walked out towards the emptier, more dangerous, side of the beach. If he was going to die, which seemed to be the way everything was going, death could meet him on the dryer sand, where he could at least stand on his own two feet.

He nearly cried when he saw another soldier. How was it that even in the most deserted places, there was nowhere to be alone? The potential inner rant was short lived as he saw the soldier burying a fallen comrade. There was little that he could do, even less that he could say, so instead he helped to pile the sand around the cold lifeless feet. While he was sure that the wind would have completely buried the soldier in a few hours, he could understand the need to say goodbye. In lieu of being able to actually farewell his soulmate, he’d poured a bottle of looted burgundy onto the soil of an abandoned field, a nonsensical apology designed only to appease his guilty conscience.

It was quiet work and so he said nothing. The other soldier, who could have barely been a year older than him said nothing either. Eventually, when the body was covered in sand, Tommy jerked his head. They went back to the beach, staying quiet as they came upon a wounded soldier whose attendants had been killed in the bombing.

They stayed quiet as they lifted the stretcher, stayed quiet as the hospital ship sounded its goodbye call, stayed quiet as they raced along the mole. Maybe they had hoped that they would be unnoticed if they stayed quiet, but even their silence did not permit them passage on the hospital ship, a midshipman noticing their huddled forms and ordering them off. They even stayed quiet when they could have tried to argue their case to escape, the energy required to even formulate the sounds too great.

Tommy let himself sigh as he set foot back on the rotting wood of the pier. He was so close to marching himself back to the abandoned city of Dunkirk, far from the fucking sand, be it suicide or no, when he heard the most wonderful sound, coming from below the boardwalk.

"Psst."

The weary young man looked down, resisting the urge to grin as he saw the silent soldier hiding in the wooden supports of the pier. Tommy scampered down the side while everyone was preoccupied with the ship and joined his companion. Even though he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the manners which his mother had instilled in him at a young age.

"Thank you." It wasn’t enough, and Tommy resolved to do more, but for now he was too tired to do anything else to show his appreciation except look at the soldier with interest. He took in the curly hair and the brown eyes, his heart softening against his will at the tired young man. It was strange and potentially dangerous to get attached to complete strangers in a time of war. But Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to care; he was at the point of becoming one of those walking corpses that he saw living in the pub if he didn’t find someone to feel _something_ for.

The other soldier remained silent, as seemed to be his natural state, the only thing that betrayed his vague understanding of what Tommy had said being the smile that briefly overtook his face.

Tommy leaned his head back on the wood of the soon to be completely destroyed structure and sighed.


	2. The Mole

The  mole was even worse than the beach. Everyone was packed in together, making easy targets of themselves. Tommy wondered how many of the men standing there had used the same pier when they'd come marching in, assured in the certainty that they would make quick work of the enemy soldiers and return home victorious. He wondered how many were left. He took the moment of stillness to rub at his left arm, the whole reason he had signed up for this doomed endeavour encapsulated in four black letters upon the pale skin of his underarm. They were probably dead now, dead or imprisoned which was effectively two ways of saying the same thing. He still wasn't completely convinced that he shouldn't have just gone and joined them, in spirit if not in person.

The silent soldier was still at his side, the only thing keeping him there. The thought of explaining that he was just going to pop out to try to find his probably dead French soulmate was enough to stop him from leaving. That and he didn't want to have to explain to a naval commander why he was hiding underneath the mole instead of being in line for it.

Neither of them had exchanged a word, the effort of trying to speak an insurmountable challenge which would not be attempted while they were near the murderous shore of a completely occupied country.

They watched together as the boat they had tried so desperately to sneak aboard began to sink, the screams of wounded soldiers unable to avoid their doom rising above the desperate shouting of the officers to cut the ship loose. They watched together as some of the stronger swimmers made their way towards the pier. They reached out together as a boy, who could not have been much older than them, tried to drag himself away from the mass of the hull.

Tommy watched the boy as he settled himself on the wooden support of the pier. He too, seemed too tired to talk, nodding his thanks, then leaning with an exhausted grimace against the wood of the mole. The grimace turned to a full fledged smile as the two boys from the beach dunked themselves in the water to qualify themselves for the next ship out of France. It didn't seem like he blamed them for it, after all, it was hardly like everyone on the ship had made it off and would need the space. Tommy couldn't help but stare at him, as silent as he was, there was something almost vivacious about him, a liveliness that Tommy had left behind somewhere in Paris still present in his way of sitting, of smiling, of breathing.

The three clambered up together, the boy from the ship helping the silent soldier up the final few steps when it seemed he would collapse.

Tommy huddled with the boy from the boat, while the silent soldier stood at the edge of the pier, looking out forlornly at the distant smoke coming from the town.

The taller boy turned to Tommy, the atmosphere finally lightened enough for him to speak.

"I'm Alex, by the way," the Glaswegian brogue soft but still recognisable.

Tommy stiffened. It was a common name, he couldn't jump to conclusions. He had been hoping that it wouldn’t come to this, that against all odds they would be safe in the as of yet safe British Isles. Still, he had to find out:

"I'm Tommy."

Alex stiffened, and looked at Tommy with renewed interest, he started to roll up his sleeves and revealed the name, written in Tommy's messy scrawl. Tommy was transfixed, his hands moving of their own volition to reveal the name on his right arm to the Scot.

"That's me," the Scot, Alex, smiled as he talked, his expression leaving Tommy feeling warm inside.

"Was worried you'd be dead by now," it was indeed morbid, but out was the only thing that Tommy could think of.

Alex didn't seem to mind, smiling again and leaning forward, "Not for a few years yet." He snuck a quick unrepentant kiss to Tommy’s temple, chuckling as the northerner brought his hand to the spot.

That was all they could manage as the call for the soldiers to board another boat sounded. The two looked to their silent companion, Alex reaching out to grab his shoulder.

"C'mon mate."

The silent soldier jerked back as though stung, looking fearfully between the two boys. Tommy raised one hand to point at himself and Alex, and then raised the other to point at the boat. The silent soldier nodded, allowing Tommy to guide him as they joined the line. Alex frowned.

"Is he always like this?" the question was whispered into Tommy's ear.

"I don't think he can speak."

The Scot shrugged, moving in front of Tommy as they were walked in single file to the smaller ship which would be ferrying them to a waiting hospital ship.

In a fashion that Tommy would soon become accustomed to, the three soldiers ended up squeezed together along one of the sides of the ship, the silent soldier huddled between the other two.

Alex started at Tommy, seeking some sort of permission before reaching out to grab their silent friend's dog-tags.

"It's okay, I just want to see your name." Gentle as the words may have been, they had no effect upon the silent soldier, who still flinched as Alex's hand reached for his neck, one hand reaching for Tommy, and one hand reaching for Alex's. Pleading eyes looked to Tommy for explanation, and the boy could do little but shush him reassuringly.

"It's okay, we just want to see your name." Tommy nodded, a failed attempt at a smile coming to his lips.

"You're right about the voice, look," the Scot pulled aside the ill fitting shirt to reveal a scar marring the silent soldier's neck. Alex smiled as he took the dog tags in one hand. "Gibson, is that right?" the question was gentle, quiet enough that even Tommy struggled to hear it.

The silent soldier shook his head ever so slightly, then pointed to himself, then back at the beach.

"French?" Tommy whispered, holding onto the silent soldier's  hand as he nodded. He shrugged, he couldn't speak to jumping the queue, having already done it once himself. "What's your name?"

A truly terrible sound came from the Frenchman's throat as he tried to speak. Both Alex and Tommy were quick to shush him. It wasn't important. Tommy would try to care for him anyway, pay him back for the hiding place which had gotten them on the ship.

Despite the communication barrier, the Frenchman tried another time, using his fingers and thumb to create first an L and then an E and then an O and then an N. It was clumsy, and quite a few incorrect guesses of W were suggested, but eventually the two Brits were able to decipher the name. Alex was the one to say it, the French taught to him at school enough to make it passable.

"León?"

The mute soldier nodded, and Tommy and Alex shared twin looks of shock. Was fate really such a cruel force?

It was only a few moments after that they were ushered onto the hospital ship, León creeping past the door to stay out on deck despite the cold weather while the others descended below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Gibson's name, I wrote this before the actor tweeted out a name, and I figured I'd stick with what I've got.


	3. The Boat

Alex frowned with the dilemma which faced him after he and Tommy had collected their toast and hot tea.

"I have-" Alex tried to begin, hoping that Tommy wouldn't be put off by him having two names, he knew it was quite rare, and not always smiled upon.

"His name? I know,” the northerner chose the worst possible moment to take a bit of the sickly-sweet toast, Alex resisting the urge to pull it out of his hands, “So do I, reckon he knows?"

Alex shook his head, both in response to the question, but also in response to Tommy's quick mind. A small part of him, the one which had been distracted by the food and drink wondered if Tommy was actually an angel, and this whole rescue was just a hallucination to comfort him as he bled out on the godforsaken beach. There seemed no other explanation for so perfect a person to be standing before him. Another part, quickly hushed by the other parts of his mind, wondered if Tommy would still be so adroit in his thinking once they got home and Alex had a good hour and a half to make him and León forget everything but Alex's name. They'd need to get of the damn ship in one piece on the other side of the channel before he could even think of that happening.

"I thought you were worried that he was French,” an incredulous laugh, only slightly hysterical around the edges, escaped the Glaswegian’s throat, “Why do you reckon he's out on deck?" Maybe when the nurses got distracted by some of the more injured soldiers he could sneak a blanket or something outside, or convince León to come inside. Either way, he’d try to make him warm up slightly, it was too cold outside.

"He’s looking for a way out, in case we get hit again." It made sense, Alex had been sunk once before, just because they were out in the open didn’t make it less of a possibility than at the mole.

The Scot nodded at this, and started to nudge Tommy towards the entrance, shrugging when the northerner looked at him sardonically.

"Can't hurt to be safe."

It didn't, in fact it may have saved them, their proximity to the door the only thing that prevented them from being completely trapped in the ship when the inevitable enemy torpedo came for them.

The extent of Alex’s swimming lessons as a child had been learning how to blow bubbles out of his nose and clumsily doggy paddling through the farm dam during the rare warm days in summer. This was quickly becoming a point of regret as he struggled to orient himself while clutching Tommy’s shoulder in the freezing cold water which was rapidly filling the cramped space of the mess.

Time somehow seemed to both speed up and slow down so that a fraction of a second took the space of an hour. The cups of now spoiled tea floated by in excruciating detail, the uprooted tables raced past fast enough to inflict a concussion.

The cork of the life-jackets was near useless, the mess of thrashing limbs and floating furniture dragging Alex down while the cork tried to pull him up. He could feel Tommy’s movements growing weaker as they spent longer and longer underwater. He started to let off a quick prayer, he’d never been a religious man, thinking God to be too vengeful to ever listen to anyone’s prayers, let alone a lowly foot soldier. Still, as he stumbled over the old Hebrew words passed down to him through his mother’s mother, he couldn’t help but hope. Not for himself of course, but for Tommy, for León. They were good, they were kind, he needed them to make it through, even if he didn’t.

-

While the two British soldiers were fed and watered below, León did his best to stay warm despite the cold weather out on deck. He couldn’t bring himself to go down into the ship with the other soldiers, the space too crowded and the possibility of being discovered as a French soldier too frightening to consider. His hands rose without his permission to trace over the edges of the scar which stood memorial to the last time that had happened.

The two he was with seemed to be alright, at the very least. They hadn’t used the ample opportunities available to them to throw him overboard when they’d found out. That was something. He hadn’t heard their names, and he hadn’t understood their words, but the gentle tone they had used was universally comprehensible, as was the smile on the taller one’s face when they had been guessing his name. Maybe they could help him when he reached the Isles across the channel, to find the English names which ran down both of his arms. It was the reason why he had been so desperate to leave the beach; with everything in such a state of chaos he needed to find someone concrete and hold them tight while he still could.

His heart broke to see his homeland retreating in the distance, that which wasn’t burning already reduced to rubble and ash. How was it that barely even twenty years after everyone saying never again, the world had fallen into darkness once more? His shivering disappeared for just a second, the sheer raw grief which he was finally able to feel without fear of distraction nearly overwhelming him. He was glad to be away from everyone else, his stomach writhing in guilt.

As it turned out, it was helpful for the boy’s continued survival to be doubled over; it gave him a clear view of the torpedo headed straight for the boat.

Theoretically he could have swum away, increased his chances of survival. But something kept him there, something guided him to the closed door, something made him desperately struggle with the handle. It was a fool’s attempt, he had not eaten for longer than he could remember, and the last time he had slept had been shortly before he had buried the soldier whose uniform he was wearing. But, even with all the reasons that he could have used to soothe his guilty conscience later, he couldn’t leave the two kind soldiers.

He had lost his family, his home, his country to the war, to a power-hungry enemy. He wasn’t sure he could survive losing the closest things to friends he had left. Once he had managed to open the door, he treaded water desperately to avoid being sucked down by the vortex created by the sinking ship.

He stared down at the slowly sinking ship, praying to Saint Marie for the safety of the two soldiers who he knew were in the ship. As the seconds dragged on, he could feel but not control the whimpers coming from his nearly destroyed throat. _Mon Dieu, aide les. Protège nous._ There was little else that he could do, he could feel the strength being sapped from his whole body as the cold water enveloped him.

It was all that he could do to keep his head above the water. He finally let himself go, let his arms stop moving frantically in the water, when two waterlogged brunettes were released from the water, both of them coughing up the salt water that had hit them when the torpedo had.

The last thing that he consciously recognized was the two figures that he had grown to adore dragging themselves through the water towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My French is terrible, sorry. Most of the translation work in this chapter consisted of me trying to translate the Spanish equivalent into the appropriate French form (also apparently you pray in tu form? which makes sense considering that in Early Modern English used thou as the informal form of address, but somehow was not what I was expecting. Anyway, the more you know)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.


	4. The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little longer than the previous chapters and also where the real canon divergence begins. I was really interested in what would have happened if the three soldiers on the beach had chosen to take their chances with the ocean, rather than being towed back to shore. This was actually the first part I wrote, but then I realised it needed a bit more background to make full sense.

The wreckage of the hospital ship which was meant to be their salvation proved to be a hidden blessing for the three boys currently thrashing around in the channel.

Tommy and Alex had surfaced to find a violently thrashing Léon. struggling to keep his head above water. It took only a moment for the two boys to drag themselves over to him, Alex pulling the silent soldier back to rest his head against his shoulder.

"Easy, easy. I've got you." The Scot turned to Tommy and shook his head. "I can't hold him forever."

Tommy dragged himself even closer to the pair ending up with his hand under Léon's back. His mute soulmate did not seem to notice, his eyes staring far away. Tommy, born and raised in a little village in the north, had never expected to see the weary look of the veterans living eternally in the pub in a comrade of his own. If he was honest, he'd never expected to have any comrades of his own. Those men had fought a war to end all wars, to stop children being sent out as they had; to act as cannon fodder for the arguments of aristocrats.

"We can't leave him."

Alex seemed taken aback. He could never leave his soulmate behind. The two boys stared at each other for a moment, their silence letting them hear the faint sound of an English officer telling some poor bastard that the lifeboat was full, incorrectly stating that the tide was heading back to the beach as though that was meant to be a comfort. Tommy shrugged as best as he was able in the cold water, and swam so he could help Alex support the trembling form of their almost mute soulmate.

They may have floated for hours, they may have floated for seconds, all that was important was that eventually, a piece of metal, identifiable as being from the hospital ship by the red cross emblazoned upon it, nudged against their backs. By this time they had gone far enough out to sea that they could barely see the coast of Dunkirk, the hundreds of thousands of men on the beach indistinguishable from the sand they stood on.

Alex nudged Tommy and motioned to the now sleeping Léon. Tommy nodded in approval, and the two did their best to put him upon the metal. Miraculously, it could just take his weight, the slight curvature of the metal holding steady a fraction of an inch above the level of the ocean. The soldier opened his eyes ever so slightly, peering curiously at the face of Tommy, before going back to sleep. Not to be ignored, Alex reached over for Léon 's shoulder, and gently shook him awake. Tommy frowned as the silent soldier turned over to face the Scot, frowned until Alex opened his mouth.

"My name is Alex." The voice was quiet, but still audible to Léon, who smiled weakly in delight at the words which matched his arm's own writings. He rolled carefully over to face Tommy again.

"My name is Tommy." The smile grew, only fading as the boy fell back asleep.

Well, that settled that.

\---

The next day, Alex and Tommy having swam through the night away from the beach, the trio saw a sight more welcome than all of the destroyers and hospital ships in the world: A simple boat, heading in the direction of the beach.

Alex was the first to see it, his shouts coming as a surprise to Tommy, who quickly joined in when he saw it. Even Léon lifted his head, his weak and horrible shouts joining the cacophony.

Just as it seemed the boat and its inhabitants had not seen them, a small face framed by dark hair looked in their direction, and the boat came about.

Tommy could barely resist smiling as Alex helped to lift first Léon and then Tommy himself onto the boat. He wondered if this fierce protectiveness would continue when they reached home, if he would spend the rest of his life with someone who guarded his back. After everything that had happened, it didn't seem such a bad fate. He found himself to one side of Léon, and Alex to the other, the mute soldier clutching their hands. The three barely moved until the same boy who had spotted them came out with three cups of tea, and a blond boy came out with blankets.

Tommy was the first to notice them, Alex too busy rubbing a thumb along the back of Léon's hand.

"It's got no milk, but it's strong," the brunette began, his voice quiet, as one would speak to a spooked dog.

"And these are quite warm once you've dried off," the blonde continued for him, offering a terse smile and holding the blankets out to the three soldiers.

Tommy nodded in thanks, releasing Léon's hand to take a blanket and drape it over his silent soulmate's shoulders.

"Thank you."

"We should really be thanking you," the blond boy looked back to the hatch, then leaned in slightly, "We had another rescue who looked to be getting quite agitated till we saw you."

Alex snorted at this, the cup of tea doing little to disguise it. "I suppose you're going to Dunkirk then."

The brunette nodded "The call's gone out. Navy's requisitioned most civilian boats, whatever they can get their hands on."

Tommy leveled a look at Alex before the Scot could say anything else. He picked up the remaining cup of tea and jerked his head at Alex. "Help me with him." Alex nodded and lifted Léon's head a little, making it easier for Tommy as the northerner poured some of the warm liquid into his mouth.

"Is he alright?" the brunette asked, earning a slight shove from the blond.

"Gibson's been out in the cold water longer than me or Tommy," Alex began, "He's just a little shocked by it."

A gruff voice rang from the door. "It looks to be a bit more than hypothermia son."

The three shivering boys startled at the sound of the voice, huddling together ever so slightly when its owner stepped out onto the deck.

"Peter, keep an eye on the other soldier would you?"

The blond boy nodded and stepped inside once again. He looked back at his friend and jerked his head. "C'mon George." The brunette followed him, as the older man crouched in front of the three rescues.

"How long were you in the water?" he questioned as he reached out to examine Léon's head with one hand. Upon finding no injury, he removed it, noticing as the curly haired soldier relaxed when he did so.

"Our ship was sunk the night before last," Tommy began, the job of explaining becoming much easier as Léon brought his hands up to take the mug of tea, "but me and Alex, we was on the inside and Gibson was out on the deck." Léon nodded tiredly, not fully understanding, but wanting to provide support.

Alex started to rearrange the blanket around Léon's shoulders while Mr. Dawson ruminated on the information. "You in the same regiment then?" The older man watched in mild amusement as the two more talkative soldiers froze, then looked to each other for a convincing lie. "It's alright if you aren't, just want to make sure he won't do anything to hurt my ship."

"He won't, we promise." Two voices rang in unison. The third had fallen back asleep by this point, the empty cup clattering from his hands and onto the deck, giving the others a shock.

The sailor nodded. It would do.

"Right then, if you need a kip there's a bed below, though when we get back to Dunkirk I may need your help with the other soldiers."

The three nodded, Alex and Tommy rising and taking Léon with them. They had begun to walk as a unit when Mr Dawson turned to them.

"And if you want to convince more important people than me that he's really a British soldier, you might want to come up with a first name for him."

Tommy looked back and nodded before the three made their way down the stairs.

-

Tommy, Alex and Léon did not mind the fact that the bed was tiny, or that there was a slightly dryer soldier shivering in the cabin. All they cared about was the dry warmth that the softness provided them with. As seemed to be his wont, Alex made sure that his other two soulmates were on the bed before he lay down, creating a bracket with Tommy around the sleeping form of Léon.

"He's so cold," Tommy noted, rubbing the back of his hand against Léon’s cheek.

"He'll warm up soon. You should sleep while you can." Alex’s statement did have a ring of truth to it, the way in which he was cuddled up to the sleeping Frenchman ensuring that their exhausted soulmate would heat up in no time.

“Do you reckon that he’s okay?” Tommy leaned forward and rested his forehead against Léon’s, rubbing their noses together in the way his mother used to do with his father when his father got into one of his quiet moods. He knew that it was impossible to wish away pain, that all of the effort in the world could go towards only numbing it, but right then and there he swore that he would at least be there during the dark days in which Léon needed him.

“He’s been in the war longer than we have, he’s the right to be tired,” Alex seemed as aware of the after-effects of combat as Tommy, resting his head against the nape of Léon’s neck.

Tommy nodded, putting his blanket so that it covered both himself and Léon, smiling when Alex did the same.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Where will we go after?"

Alex paused, looking up at the cabin's ceiling before he answered.

"My family's got a farm, a bit out of Glasgow. We grow grain for the whiskey, and meat for the market. There's plenty of room."

"You don't mind?"

"Course not. Léon can go a bit earlier, 'for the war is over, and we'll join him when this mess sorts itself out. Now sleep, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Their quiet conversation was interrupted by the sound of a falling plane and Mr Dawson yelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thematically, the title seems a tad disconnected from the setting of this chapter. The main reason for this is because I couldn't write a few thousand words about being stuck in the open ocean without becoming unbearably pretentious, as there would be virtually no dialogue and quite a few synonyms for blue.
> 
> Also, I'm editing the previous chapters to spell Léon’s name right :)


	5. The Moonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some deliberately bad french in here. Please comment if the bad French is too good, or the good French is too bad.

"Stay here," was the first thing out of Alex's mouth, much to Tommy's displeasure. "If we've been hit, I'll come back and get you."

"Alex!"

"I promise I'll be back."

The Scot ran off before Tommy could do anything to stop him.

-

Alex wasn't entirely sure how his sprint up the stairs ended with him helping to drag a downed pilot aboard deck. He had watched the plane slowly sink underneath the water, and let out a quick prayer to whoever was out there that he wouldn't find himself in the same position. The next prayer after that was that he would never again see Peter Dawson carrying an oar with a determined expression on his face. That was terrifying, was what it was.

The pilot, who introduced himself as Asher Collins, sounded to be from Inverness or thereabouts, definitely not a Glaswegian. Alex watched as the pilot coughed up a lung of water and then stared warily at the faces surrounding him.

"You do realise that it's a war zone out here?" Yes, definitely Inverness. Alex wondered what clan he was in, if he wore a scrap of fabric with his tartan in his inside pocket like most of the highlander regiment did. He was broken out of his reverie by the gruff sound of Mr Dawson's voice.

"That's the point son."

Alex had no desire to listen any further, so he returned to the cramped cabin, Tommy now asleep and Léon staring at him. The shivering soldier had finally stopped shivering, and was staring at the three soldiers.

"You got a problem mate?"

The soldier shook his head, not quite ready to talk.

Alex shrugged and collapsed next to Léon, smiling slightly in reassurance.

"It's alright, just another soldier."

He pulled the blanket on the bed around himself, only to be roused again by the entrance of the pilot into the room.

"Fuck's sake!"

"I'm sorry," the pilot began, wincing in apology, making Alex immediately feel guilty, "Mr. Dawson said that your friend might be hurt."

Alex nodded exhaustedly, rolling over to shake Léon awake. The Frenchman blinked in question at his soulmate, then practically froze when he saw the unknown pilot. Even Tommy, who Alex had thought to have finally fallen asleep lifted his head at all of the movement on the bed.

"It's alright, he's here to help," Alex muttered, forcing a smile to his lips. He was going to have to relearn French at some point, his mother would be delighted, she'd cried when he'd failed it in second form at school. He began to maneuver himself to be behind Léon's back, rubbing his soulmate's shoulders as the pilot approached. Tommy, half asleep, rolled over to hold onto Léon's hands.

"My name's Asher." The pilot spoke gently, his arms outstretched to reveal empty hands. When there was no response to his introduction, he continued his walk forward. "What's your name?"

Léon gestured to his throat and shook his head. He brought a hand up to tug at Alex's sleeve.

"He doesn't speak," Alex began, letting one hand fall to Tommy's shoulder, finding the comfort of being with both of the people he was meant to spend his life with to be immeasurable. "We think he was shot in the neck."

"You haven't asked?"

"Been a bit busy not dying and all."

"May I?" The words may have been directed at Alex but the pilot was looking Léon directly in the eyes. The Glaswegian decided he liked him. It was better than what most people were like with veterans. He brought up a hand to the brine soaked curls of Léon, and looked down upon him.

"It's okay," he murmured, praying that the Frenchman would understand, "He's here to help."

Miraculously, the silent man didn't lash out as the pilot gently moved the collar away to reveal the marred skin of his throat.

"I cannae say for sure, but looks to me like rope-burn more than a bullet. It might not be permanent." He stood up and shrugged, "I cannae do anything else for it."

Alex looked down at Tommy, who, he was pleased to find, was staring back at him with an identical look of horror and shock. How the fuck did one get rope-burn in this war? He only looked back up when the pilot stopped by the door and looked back. "We'll be there soon, if any of ye want to help, it'd be appreciated."

Alex looked down at Léon and Tommy, at their tired faces. Was it so much to ask that they have a moments peace? He was broken out of his reverie by the other silent soldier getting up, and joining Collins at the door. The Glaswegian sighed, knowing that be couldn't let himself be outdone by that Inverness bastard, or he'd never hear the end of it at home. He maneuvered himself out from under Léon, and headed towards the door. He was about to call back that he'd return soon, but when he turned back he found both of them following him out of bed.

"You-"

"Mate, I'm not coming home from Dunkirk saying I slept through most of it."

Alex shrugged, and all three men ascended the stairs together.

\---

Léon knew little of what the people around him were talking about, but he could understand the general gist of most things. It didn't take a solid understanding of a language to understand that the flaming oil on the water was not a good thing. He found himself standing between Tommy and Alex, trying desperately, and for the most part succeeding in pulling the half drowned soldiers in danger of it aboard the little vessel. They were all so young, and scared, too young to be out in the war fighting against such a terrifying enemy. He nearly fell over the side of the boat when the old man decided that they were full to capacity and began to steer the ship away, only being steadied at the last minute by the hands of Alex and Tommy. Maybe in another life he would have been left to the cold mercies of the ocean, would have been one of the many bodies left behind in the channel; but as Tommy and Alex’s warm hands reminded him, that was not to be now.

As people who had helped, they were permitted the luxury of staying on deck while the other soldiers had to go below. He was glad, still not entirely believing that they had made out out of danger, quite sure that they would have to seek shelter in the cold water of the channel another time. At least he would have Alex and Tommy, his kind soulmates. He suspected that their quiet determination and sheer bloody-mindedness would end up with them all dragging themselves up along the beaches of Dorset.

Alex pulled him down to sit with his back against the wood of the hull, while Tommy wrapped an arm around him. After the chaos of pulling soaking wet British soldiers out of the oil covered water before the enemy plane could crash into them, it was an utter joy to be able to sit still, and know that he would not be called upon again. Léon longed to thank them, to say anything to them in fact, but the ruined tissue of his vocal chords prevented even the slightest sweet sound from coming from his throat, and he didn't think that hissing would get the point across. He settled for bringing each of their hands to his mouth and kissing them quickly. They seemed to understand.

He did not understand the words coming from Tommy's mouth, only that the smile which accompanied them promised good things to come soon.

Léon found his head being turned around, the rough hands of Alex framing his face. He breathed in, the feel of a kind hand upon his skin so very welcome, even if the stare he was being fixed with was almost unnervingly intense.

"C'est bon." The French was heavy with the Scottish accent, and the meaning was vague, but the attempt was welcome. Alex began to nod, trying to make sure that he had been understood. "Et tu es bon, et je suis bon, et Tommy est bon, et nous sommes bon." It was still rough, but he could understand. He nodded as best he could, kissing the palm of Alex's hand when his head was released. He leaned his head back against Tommy's shoulder, and smiled at Alex. He raised a hand to his throat, hoping that what he said would be understandable to Alex at the very least, and maybe even Tommy as well.

"Nous sommes bien." It was harsh, and would have made his mother cry, but that was the reality of a botched hanging. At least Alex seemed to understand, a hand coming up to his face again, and a beautiful smile being directed at him.

The Frenchman leaned back against Alex and smiled at Tommy. Again he brought the northerner's hand to his mouth and kissed it, not carrying if anyone saw the display of affection. It was worth any type of interrogation if it brought a smile to his soulmate's face. He stilled as he felt Alex's hand come up to trace the outline of the scar tissue on his throat, shuddering almost unnoticeably as the sensation proved to be less painful than he'd expected. Tommy, as hawk eyed as he was noticed anyway, and had the audacity to smirk at him, and then at Alex, and then bring his hand down under the cover of the blanket and slowly slide it up the inside of Léon's leg.

The Frenchman looked around as inconspicuously as he was able, nearly sighing in relief when he saw that the two boys were too interested in steering, that the shivering soldier was staring at the waves, and that the pilot was looking out to the skies. At least it seemed then, that the no doubt unending teasing he was going to experience for the next few hours would be in a place with a at least a modicum of privacy. At least until Tommy surged forward to kiss him on the mouth.

Léon wanted to cry as the feeling of rightness which had been absent in him since the enemy had invaded Belgium flooded through him. He chased after Tommy when he leaned back, letting the two become separate entities again, only to find Alex leaning down too. It seemed that there would be no subtlety or hiding in this situation, and Léon couldn't bring himself to care, smiling into the tender kisses and whispering sweet nothings in a breathy voice into the palms, the necks, the hair of the two people with whom he planned spending the rest of his life. If the world wanted to stare they could.

It was only when they were satisfied that they were alive and concrete that they pulled back, Tommy collapsing on top of him and Alex sacrificing himself as a pillow for Léon's head. By then the sun was falling in the sky, the edges of the burning orb nearly touching the horizon.

For the first time in months, Léon slept, and didn't worry for what he might find when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter to go, which will serve as an epilogue.


	6. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue I promised you all :) I hope that you enjoy it

There are realities in life after a war. Some buildings will be gone, the expenses of restoring life to the way it was before too great to be reasonable. Some people are always gone, whether it be in mind out in body, having been offered up in the name of something bigger than them. While time always strips away the things of yesteryear, wars make this more apparent, and little can remain constant after times of great upheaval. The general exception to this rule is the food we eat, alcohol and grain having been staples of most peoples diets for thousands of years.

This is all really just a very long way of saying that even after everything that had happened in six of the darkest years in the remembered history of the world, there was still a farm a way outside of Glasgow which was famous for making grain for the whisky, and for raising surprisingly hardy cattle and sheep.

It's inhabitants had not escaped the war unscathed, but they had escaped with their lives, which was something to be grateful for. Léon would have happily given the softness of his voice a thousand times again, and Alex the tip of his left thumb, and Tommy the wholeness of his leg of it meant that they would never again be parted. The doctors had said that the sleeplessness would eventually fade away, and that with enough time and patience, there would be peace in their hearts again. There was no reason not to believe them, so the three did their best to work with what they had. The mornings after nights spent screaming were filled with tea and blankets, and on days where one or two or all three of them were too sore to work, they would sit on the couch in the living room and listen to the reassuring crackle of the wireless, the nonsense romance radio plays the perfect thing to listen to when the days were dark and full of shadows.

On good days, they'd find themselves spread all across the large farm. Léon was excellent with the sheep and cattle, his quiet disposition making him a calming figure, perfect for guiding them from one pasture to another without incident. He'd often come back to the house after hours spent out in the paddocks, covered in mud, much to the displeasure of Tommy and the mirth of Alex. The baths afterwards, and what they inevitably led to, were worth any ire that may have been directed at him. Tommy spent most of his time about the house and the surrounding gardens, gathering eggs from the chickens and spoiling the alleged sheep dogs rotten with cuddles and off cuts of meat from the butcher. His leg became stiffer in the winter, and he'd spend most of his time after he'd done his chores sitting in the most comfortable armchair, reading books both new and old. He found he liked Austen much more now than when he was in school, but that Shelley and Byron were still a bit much for him. As for Alex, he was often to be found in the field, and instructing the seasonal workers during the harvest, taking great care not to let a single grain be wasted if he possibly could avoid it. He liked the wireless the most of all of them, listening to it for as long as there was a station broadcasting in the evening. The music offering good accompaniment for Tommy's reading and Léon's daydreaming.

During the holidays they'd receive visitors, at first Mr Dawson and his son and George coming during Easter to see the soldiers they had fished out of the channel. After the very end of the war, when all of the prisoners had been released, that found themselves hosting the pilot, Asher, and the pilot who had flown with him and had been captured at Dunkirk. His name was Farrier, and his sardonic sense of humour made him a welcome guest at the farm. During the winter, around Christmas time, when there was little enough to do for the farm hand to take care of their home, they'd go away for a week. The first holiday after the war, they'd gone to France, the two Brits leaving flowers at the grave of Léon's parents as a way of thanking them for their beloved, quiet and fiercely loving soulmate. They'd spent the rest of their holidays seeing the world, walking across the Sydney Harbour Bridge and visiting the ruined city of Machu Picchu. It was lovely to see the world and not be shot at.

Slowly, and non-linearly because that's how recovery is sometimes, what the rest of the world defined as normal began to apply to the denizens of the farm, and the sleepless nights slowly became fewer and far between. The memories of that accursed beach were superimposed with those of warm nights and rare but treasured lazy days. While it was impossible for everything to return to the way before the shadow of war fell over the world, the three endeavoured to live their lives as best they were able.

It may not have seemed much, it may not have seemed grand, but it was enough and they were happy.

And they remained happy for the rest of their days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been a little overwhelmed by the reception this work has received (in a good way). Thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudos, it's a lovely feeling to know that people like what I've done.
> 
> Thank you again, I'll miss writing (and editing) this work, so much, and I hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is all written out and only requires a bit more editing before the other chapters are up. It should be all up before the middle of September if you'd prefer to binge it when it's all here.


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